Sunday, September 30, 2012

People who enjoy dating are Masochists. Dating fucking sucks. It sucks worse than one of those epic bouts of food poisoning where lava is flowing out of your asshole and you're puking so violently into the trashcan that it's splattering your face and there's nothing you can do to fix it.

When someone says they like dating I decide immediately that I don't want to date them, ever. I won't even let it buy me Taco Bell even though it's 2 a.m. and all I can think about is how much I want a burrito in and around my mouth area. Why? Because if you're into dating and therefore a Masochist you're going to be into some weird shit. These are the guys that want you to pee on them and then roll around in your urine or they want to do it "Rockstar" style. The "Rockstar" style is something new I learned recently and is a perfect example of why I hate random dating/hook ups. During a recent awkward encounter I found out the hard way, so many puns intended, that doing it "Rockstar" style means bareback. Some of you may also call this "raw dogging" which makes me puke in my mouth and promise my vagina that she's better than that. Things were going fine, not great just fine, until Tommy Lee rips off the condom, throws it against the wall and mutters something about "boring" and tries to pull a sneak attack on my peesh. Let me just throw it out there that I assume any dude I'm hooking up with has HPV, Herpes, all the kinds of Hepatitis and maybe even some STD that no one has heard about yet. I'd rather assume that a hazmat suit is necessary than have weird shit growing on my vagina. So I asserted my right as a white woman in America and threw that fucker out. I have to say I experienced more pleasure in seeing his look of fear and handing his friend his boxers and shirt the next morning than any kind of potential orgasm situation. Also you really shouldn't throw lubed condoms against a wall, it's gross. Have some respect Motley Crue.

I kind of get off on awkward situations. Watching socially awkward people flirt is one of my all time favorite things. Turn that into a reality show on Lifetime and I won't leave my apartment for the next three to four months. No joke. If I get the rare opportunity to witness this in person it's even more amazing. This might make me creepy but I give no fucks about that. Recently I learned that I don't like this as much when instead of two socially awkward people it's me and a dude who wouldn't realize that I'm not into him if it reached around and tickled his balls.

When I'm blacked out it's easy to mistake my lack of brain function with me being pleasant and possibly even friendly. In reality I'm just too fucking drunk to notice that you've had your hand down my shirt for 30 minutes. This is how "accidental dates" happen. When I think I'm just going to get free margaritas, maybe even a couple of tequila shots if I play my cards right, and suddenly freak of nature guy is telling people I'm his girlfriend and trying to hold my hand under the table like we're in love or something. I black into my life for a second, realize what's happening, don't know how to fix it, then proceed to go full Terri Schaivo status and stop all brain activity so I don't have to deal with the situation. When I wake up the next day I will ignore your Facebook friend request and feel nautious when you text me every 10 minutes. Don't get me wrong, I love attention. I'm okay with sharing the spotlight, but if I'm not at least the co-star of the show I'm secretly pissed and on the verge of choking everyone or flipping a table to put everyone back in check and remind them that I'm fucking awesome. It's easy to just hang out with a dude when you have a boyfriend because they know nothing is going to go down. Once that barrier isn't there, I feel like I have to make it clear what this night is about. I feel like the best way to handle this situation is to be honest; my go to phrase is "We're not fucking. But feel free to do shots with me and give me a lot of attention." If you don't like it then stop passing me tequila shots. Also don't try to hold my hand. EVER.

I hate that when you're pounding it out with someone you don't know so well you feel like you have to maintain a level of politeness. Especially if you're not sure if there's going to be a round two, or if you might want to let this person be a frequent guest on your reality show. My least favorite situation is the little engine that clearly couldn't, but wouldn't accept it and kept trying. I get it, whiskey dick happens. With the amount of alcohol I consume on a daily basis I'm fully aware of this and I won't judge you, much. But if we both know it's not going to work yet you insist on plowing away I'm going to kind of hate you when my peesh is sad and just wants to be left alone with a bottle of wine for the next 3 weeks. Also every dude I meet during this necessary hiatus hates you too. Thanks for ruining it for everyone. At least when this happens with someone I'm familiar with I can politely say "Get the fuck off me so I can drink a beer and see what's on HBO" instead of being completely silent and making pained faces until dude realizes that I'm less than not into it, I actually HATE it and want it to stop immediately. Also apologizing profusely doesn't fix it. I don't want to have to comfort you when I need you to leave so I can apologize to my vagina for letting that go on for longer than necessary.

I fully believe that the whole idea of monogamy stems from pure laziness. It's fucking exhausting constantly having to learn how someone likes their blow job, if they're a morning sex person or if they want you to call them daddy and punch them in the face when they blow their load. I imagine that after being with someone forever you know all the go to's and already have your fist clenched when they start making that weird squeal/yelp noise. It's almost like having a second job that most times pays really shitty and ups your dry cleaning bill. I wouldn't be opposed to an arranged marriage. If my mom wants to man hunt for me and convince some dude who makes 6 figures that I'll be a great wife and bear him lots of fetal alcohol babies I'm totally cool with that. I feel like in most cases I'm getting the better end of the deal. This poor bastard is stuck with me and I can stop shaving my legs and snort his epic paycheck right up my noise when I'm not injecting it into my arm. Also I wouldn't have to learn anything about anything because I'd be too fucked up to be more than a corpse. I'm calling my mother immediately, this needs to happen before I'm 30 and full blown tragic cat lady.

On the other hand, fuck it, Casual Encounters here I come. I need a drink and I haven't cashed my paycheck yet.

Thursday, September 20, 2012

I promise that my blogs for the next 6 months will not be about my break up. Seriously. I mean not that I'm trying to brag or anything but life has been pretty good since I went back to my trolling for dick and taking my pants off in public days. I'll be 30 soon and won't be able to post that shit on the internet anymore so I figure I'm pretty smart to live it up now and pound my way to the middle of...something. I'm not sure what happens to you after you turn 30 but I feel like something weird is going to happen to my peesh. Like it will become more selective or something and clamp shut if a 23 year-old who works at California Pizza Kitchen tries to get in there. And I like playing the cougar card every so often. I mean when else is it appropriate for me to do that weird bendy thing that only the 23 year-olds know I can do? Right? Exactly. But I digress.

I read a shit ton of magazines. Cosmo, Glamour, Lucky, Plucked (that one's not actually real but I feel like it should be); all those are sitting in my apartment somewhere. It seemed like fate that the week after I re-entered singledom all of them had articles on how to get through a break up. I tend to handle my problems the adult way, with tons of booze and blacked out hook ups, but I thought maybe I could try following a professional's advice for once. So I read every single mother fucking one of those articles. And you know what I learned? NOTHING BITCHES. It was all fucked up advice like "hang out with your girlfriends more" and "take yourself on dates and get to know yourself again." Are you shitting me? I was ALREADY taking myself out on dates when I paid for dinner every night without the mystery of "is she or isn't she" because I already knew I was going to put out. And weird, my girlfriends don't want to hang out with me and risk the chance that I'm going to have a public mental breakdown and lie in the gutter crying at any moment. Thanks for nothing you overpaid and underdressed cunts. I decided that I'm going to break down how to get over a break up with the real business. The truth hurts so if you're feeling emotionally unstable put the razor away and grab a glass of wine instead. I promise....booze fixes everything. Except an unplanned pregnancy, trust me on that one.

These are what I've discovered are the stages of a break up; so those of you who think you're with "the one" will be ready for the shitshow when it happens. If you disagree I give NO FUCKS because I'm right and you're dumb.

Stage 1:
The EPIC pity party. I'm talking lying on the ground listening to that "you beat my ass but I still love you song" from Rihanna over and over while sobbing and trying to force your dog to cuddle you when he'd rather jump off the balcony headfirst and then hobble into traffic to finish the job. This stage also factors in the moments when you're sitting in public with a friend and suddenly burst into tears for absolutely no reason. You're sitting there blowing snot into her french fries and she's fucking pissed because she has to pretend that she doesn't care and she's supportive of you when she really wants to stab you in the throat because every attractive male in a 10 mile radius has slowly backed away and now that they're not looking she would scarf down those fries but she can't because you got bodily fluids all over them. We've all seen that girl crying in her car, sitting in traffic, screaming some Kelly Clarkson song at the top of her lungs and punching her steering wheel. We've laughed and cried with this girl. Reality check...you ARE this girl. In my case it was an Adele song and I was also chain smoking but you get my drift. Looks of pity and fear on all sides. The only thing worse than traffic? Being stuck next to that hot mess.

Stage 2:
Once the pity party ends the real party begins. I've now decided that I'm going to be so god damn fun that the fun police might actually show up at The Rape Den (aka my apartment for those of you not cool enough to know) and arrest me. This leads to Tuesday night blackouts where I wake up on Wednesday morning naked, on my living room floor, while my dog looks at me with shame and remorse and refuses to let me touch him. I may have also come to consciousness on my balcony at 2 a.m. on a Thursday morning realizing that I have no pants on and the public has had full access to my upper thighs and wedgie for possibly 30 minutes or more. Who cares though? I mean what would Lindsey Lohan do? I can tell you...another line and then she'd get right back on that acid tripping horse and do it all over again. The party stage is fun but it's also a struggle when you're pushing thirty and those bags under your bloodshot eyes don't just magically disappear over a few hours. Those bitches stay with you. And I'm on a man hunt. No one wants to date the girl who is storing tequila shots on her face. Not cute. This stage loses it's appeal when you come to and realize that you've brought a grade A douchebag to your apartment and homeboy thinks he's going to stay over and cuddle. Fortunately that whiskey shot was ready to make a second appearance and nothing makes a dude bail from your apartment faster than puke. Or a positive pregnancy test sitting on your bathroom sink. FACT.

Stage 3:
This is when I decide that I am going to buckle down and really land Mr. Right. I am going to find that unicorn of a man who appreciates my sarcasm, loves my spaz of a dog, thinks my cat shitting on the floor is charming and has no problem staying sober and picking me up off the floor of bars to take me home and cuddle me and tell me I'm pretty. This stage doesn't last long because I quickly realize that I'm half in Stage 1 and 2 still and this perfect man is not going to want to date me when I have tears and vomit on my face/clothes/body/in my purse. Coming back to Stage 3 is probably a good idea. We all saw that childhood movie where they killed all the unicorns anyway. No sense in striving for the impossible.

Stage 4:
I call this the Mary-Kate stage. This is when you decide that you will stop eating and be the sexiest corpse ever. My ex will sob at my funeral when he sees how hot I became and he'll totally want to put it in me but I'll have bodyguards to ensure that nothing goes up there. I made out with a mortician once and he over shared, I know what kind of shit goes down. Someone is guarding my vagina until it's burned to a crisp in that big ass oven. This is also when you decide that you're going to join a gym, start waking up an hour early to jog, fill your fridge with lettuce and carrots and save all of your calories for that bottle of wine you have to drink when you get home from work because you can still be fun when you're emaciated. Then you realize that your booze budget doesn't allow any room for a gym membership. Also I really hate sweating in public. Almost more than I hate watching other people sweat in public. If someone's sweaty limb brushes against me it's an immediate dry heave situation. If I'm wet in public it better be because it's raining or I'm involved in a wet t-shirt contest and nailing it. Also after that bottle of wine I kind of need a burrito. It's necessary. Also let's all remember that Mary Kate is recovered now. Sort of. You know you've moved on from this stage when you wake up with an empty bag of Doritos in your bed and instead of feeling bad you're just sad that you have to stop and buy another bag on your way home from work today.

Stage 5:
Now that I've realized that I don't burst into tears for no reason anymore and that fucking song that used to make me scream and dive for the knob to my radio while swerving and possibly killing children while driving doesn't even make me flinch anymore, I've decided that I hate most men and give no fucks if I die alone. I'm tired ya'all. I'm broke from my month-long bender and the last bruise from falling down my stairs every night is finally in that weird yellow/green stage. I don't care about impressing anyone and licking a stranger's face just because I can. I don't feel like I'm losing in this break-up war if I stay home and watch a movie and go to bed at 10:00 p.m. I also feel like if I meet a cool dude rad. If he's cool and also has pro status at 69ing and wants to share some insight into that one position where your leg is all....nevermind...that's even better. I know that the homies who stuck by me while I went batshit crazy and probably shouldn't have had sharp objects in my home will fix me if I lose my shit again.

Also, just for clarification, as far as I'm concerned...I WON.

But you can still feel free to take me out and buy me drinks. I'll split my burrito with you and insult strangers. Who doesn't want/need that in their life?

Thursday, August 30, 2012

I recently had the joyous experience of changing my Facebook relationship status from "In A Relationship" to "Single". I would have preferred the option to change my status to "I'm Sad and Willing to Let you Buy Me Massive Amounts of Drinks and Tell me I'm Pretty for a Handjob" but Facebook is too lame to have that option. Also I feel like when you change your status someone from Facebook should mail you a care package with Xanax, slutty underwear and a bottle of Jim Beam. A gun would also be cool but I can see why that might cause a conflict of interest.

In the past when I've broken up with someone they've immediately been dead to me. They've pretty much been transported to another planet where their genitals are gnawed off but regenerate just to get gnawed off again the next day by some nasty little creature covered in scabies and crabs. At least if dreams came true that would be the case. Kidding. Sort of. Not really at all. But I don't believe in remaining friends with someone who has seen you naked, most likely farted on you at some point and/or has high-fived one of your siblings after tagging you in their guest room. I feel like if you don't like me enough to buy me flowers and walk my dog when I'm too drunk...then you don't get the pleasure of watching me go full tranny train wreck status every weekend and most weekdays.

This particular situation is precarious for multiple reasons. Also I feel like at this point in my life I need to start working towards this whole being a mature adult thing. I figure since I still take my pants off in public and vomit behind bars on the weekend, and I don't plan on fixing that anytime soon, I can be more adult in how I handle disappointments in my life. The whole "let's be friends" discussion came up. My first thought was "DIE". No joke. I wanted his life to end. I pretty much wanted his body to explode into blood and gooey shit like when a vampire is staked on True Blood. After my homicidal anger somewhat subsided to a level 2 rage blackout...I considered the option. But here's the thing, when a guy says he wants to be friends after a break up what he really means is "I don't want bad karma for dicking you over and would like to think I have the option of pounding you again someday." What a girl like me thinks is "I would rather pound ANYONE in the world than you right now." And when I say anyone I mean Danny Devito can writhe his tiny, hairy little body all over me and I'd be okay with it.

As far as having sex with an ex, I see it this way; unless I can literally black widow you after sex, then no. The muffin shop is closed my new friend. For me it's not so much that I think I'd feel all lovey and shit if I boned someone that I genuinely liked and wanted to be around at one point and now range between slight affection and pure hatred for, it's more that I don't want to know that you are having a good time. Even if that good time ends up in my hair a little bit, I'm not about it. I'd like to believe that your penis is rubbed raw from all of your masturbating and that the last girl who looked at you at the bar laughed when you thought you had a chance. Also I want him to think that I've slept with so many people since we broke up that my vagina is like throwing a hot dog down a hallway. Just think about that for a second. Yeah, I know. Take a minute to vomit and then come back to me. If you bone each other than you know what's been going on. The chastity bush cannot make an appearance because then the mystery is all over. And let's be real, one of the best parts about being single again is letting shit get a little unorganized downtown. I'm pretty sure every person reading this wants to have sex with me right now. (Call me).

My motto has always been: Date someone more fucked up and emotionally retarded than me so when I go full Courtney Love, it's just another Tuesday. The problem is that we all know what happened to Courtney and Kurt. I need to find someone who will gently coach me back into my pants, pull me out of the kiddie pool in someone's front yard at 3:00 a.m. and ice my fingers when I burn it on a cigarette while throwing my arms around violently telling a story to a homeless person outside the bar on a Thursday night. This doesn't work if my caretaker is taking a shit behind a van in a parking lot while trying to convince Dominos to deliver to him, mid-squat. Despite my intense love and adoration of fellow train wrecks, it's time to retire my flannel and ripped fishnets and try to find a real person to take whiskey shots with.

I'll continue to work on being an adult and resist the urge to go all Carrie Underwood and carve my name into his torso while he sleeps. But if I slip up and "accidentally" leave my dog poop bag next to your car door consider yourself lucky. And then watch an episode of "Snapped" and you'll see what I mean.

Monday, May 28, 2012

I hope this blog doesn't ruin the lives of too many men. Actually...fuck it...I hope it ruins all of their lives.

A little while back I was hanging out with a few friends drinking beers because clearly, what else would we be doing on a Sunday night with the hell that is Monday looming over us? I had just started having adult sleepovers with a new victim, I mean man-friend, and had mentioned it to my friends but didn't quite go into detail. Men, just a warning for you, I know you believe that we tell our girlfriends every brutal detail of our sexcapades but this isn't necessarily true. If we bone you and know for a fact you were a one-night stand, and you were wearing flannel in a non-ironic way with loafers, then chances are we will mock you mercilessly to our friends the next day and describe in vivid detail how weird your O-face was. However, if you may be around for rounds 2-7, we aren't going to bag on you. I mean seriously, if I mock you but I keep letting you penetrate me then who's the twat? That would be me in case you were distracted by the word twat.

My new man-friend happened to be part of the drinking crew and all was going well. No one had made any awkward comments or insisted we sit next to each other and then proceed to stare at us until at least one of us was contemplating faking an irritable bowel syndrome flare up. Then, just because Jesus obviously loves me, a Viagra commercial comes on. My friend, assuming it would just be funny, made a comment to man-friend about how maybe this commercial should be something he should pay attention to. Within seconds I was suffocating in awkwardness and literally hoped I would shit myself just to take attention away from what was just said. To try to play it off I sat there silently and prayed for death, while trying to make a face like nothing was wrong. Even though I'm pretty sure that I was dripping sweat and possibly dry heaving. Just when I thought maybe the moment would pass, man-friend says, "That's not really completely my fault." Ahhhhhh fuck. And my friend who has more tact than anyone I know yells, "You went soft!?" in the most deafening inside voice I have ever had the joy to experience.

See, I hadn't mentioned that one little part of our first encounter. We've all had a whiskey dick experience. Whether we're the girl working our jaw muscles until we feel like our face is going to fall off or you're the guy cursing his poor penis for taking early retirement. It's not that big of a deal. I don't take it personally when it happens. Clearly it's you, not me. I'm awesome and I know where my talents lie. As mentioned before, if you're a for sure one night stand and I plan on ignoring you next time I run into you at Fresh and Easy, I would tell my friends you were an epic fail and give you a witty nickname like "Soft Sam" or something else brilliant. But if I think you might be a 7 or higher on the cool scale I'm going to leave that little detail out. New man-friend made the mistake of assuming i'd told my friends everything and they were legitimately mocking him. A warning to all men, don't assume her friends know everything. If you tell on yourself, no one can fix that.

At this point we were all feeling a little awkward, and I think my friend felt bad about attacking new man-friend's in the sack skills, so she decided to change the subject. This is where the chastity bush comes in. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, you're lying. But I'll let you pretend to be ignorant and explain anyway. The chastity bush is when a girl decides not to groom her nether regions to prevent herself from being a whore. This is done when we know we're going to drink a lot and run into an unattractive guy that we've boned in the past and we don't want a repeat performance. Or when we've been fucking more people than Jenna Jameson in an orgy scene and we need to simmer down before fetuses just start walking out of our vaginas. This seems like a great tactic. But then the inevitable happens. You decide to let the jungle go wild and after 18 Jager bombs and some weird little pill you get from the chick crying in the bathroom, you're ready to leave with just about anyone who's still standing and doesn't have vomit on their shirt/pants/shoes. Cut to 20 minutes later when you're licking Sam/Alex/Bob/Jim/John/whatever's face and remember that all hell has broken loose down there. Do I tell him? Do I just let him find out himself and act dumb? Lie and say I was just camping for two weeks and a bush keeps the bears away? In theory, the chastity bush is a fantastic idea. But I would still recommend keeping a razor and one of those travel sized shaving creams in your purse just in case. If he's a potential round 2-7 you don't want him showing up with goggles and a weed wacker the next time you text him "hi ;)" at 3 am.

The moral of the story, men don't assume we tell our friends everything. Just assume that they will hate you the second we discard you. And I'll just pretend that you aren't telling your friends about my chastity bush.

Monday, May 21, 2012

Why is it that the very second you change your relationship status on Facebook you feel like the next text you get is going to start off with, "Hey...we need to talk..."? With maybe a few more of these ... and possibly even one of those confused face emoticons that I fucking hate. I wasn't confused when I got your text but now that you added that little fucker I don't know what the hell this conversation is going to be about. So thank you for giving me butt crack sweat and a severe case of indigestion while I sit at my computer for the next 8 hours at a job that already makes me contemplate suicide on a regular basis.

For those of you who know me well I suck at relationships. Seriously. If I make it past date three that's like winning the Special Olympics. If I make it to month three that's like cheating and winning at the Special Olympics. Epic stuff. However I stand by my belief that it's because I'm too fun for anyone I've dated. They believe in things like sober days during the week. Also going to bed before midnight and having dinner without wine. What the fuck is that? I don't think you should force the person you date to become a Mormon. I didn't sign up for that shit and I'm not waiting until marriage...for anything.

The one time I felt enough confidence to actually update my Facebook status to "In A Relationship" I immediately regretted it. Now it's out there and before I could even refresh the page and decide maybe I wasn't ready the fucking thing had 87 likes and 54 comments. Weird since I only had 16 Facebook friends. The pressure was on. Now if it didn't work out the whole goddamn Facebook world would judge me. I'd be getting e-cards with inspirational messages like "You're better than that" or "There's more fish in the sea." Really? Is that a sperm reference because the last thing I want to think about is some rebel sperm penetrating my drunk little egg. Especially since for the next 7-8 years I only plan on having one night stands and lots of hate sex since men are evil and women are too fucking nuts for me to cross over to the other side.

Maybe this whole process would have been easier if Facebook had clearer delineations for what kind of relationships people are in. Instead of jumping right into "In A Relationship" I would have much preferred changing my status to "He doesn't make me want to vomit and I only consider punching him in the face once a week." And then maybe the next step would have been "I might be willing to put a finger in his ass during oral."These seem way more realistic. By the time we were ready to break up everyone would have been ready for it because I would have updated the status to "Does anyone know where to hide a body?". No shockers then when I suddenly became "Single" again.

After the first incident I swore I would never update my relationship status on Facebook. It was kind of easy since "Whoring it up" or "Trollin for dick" were never options anyway. Unfortunately every so often the embarrassing girl inside me exorcises my soul and makes me do things I consistently regret. In this case, after a bottle of wine (alright bitches two bottles of wine) I decided that I was taking the plunge and updating my relationship status. I literally paced back and forth in front of my computer for 20 minutes arguing out loud to myself. Thank god my neighbors already think I'm a psycho. Finally I did it and shut my computer off. Honestly I figured at this point the only more embarrassing thing would be to change it and then immediately change it back. I mean seriously...get a gun.

Of course within second my phone blows up with Facebook messages. And even cuter it posts my updated status as a huge billboard on my Facebook. Thank god I've gotten into the market of trading Xanax for Vicodin because it took more than they found in Brittany Murphy's bloodstream to get me through that first hour.

I was 100% sure that within the next 2 hours I was going to be dumped. He was going to come out of the closet, announce he has actually asexual and faked it every time, or that he was moving to Utah and becoming a Mormon. The third one would have literally driven me to suicide. I don't want to be responsible for making someone hate their life so much they want to swear off everything I enjoy about life. Every time I got a text message I thought I was going to shit my pants and/or barf on a stranger. Thank god for Costco and their bulk items.

All of this could have been prevented if Facebook would just pull their heads out of their asses and allow us to update our relationship status to something that makes sense. Mr. Facebook guy, if you're reading this, I would appreciate it if you would allow me to update my status to "My peesh is off limits, but I'm still fun."Put that as a Timeline billboard suckas.